Snowfall
by drama-princess
Summary: Outside, the snow falls. So does Remus.


Author's Note: I am J.K. Rowling. Really. These are my characters.   
  
This is just a strange little piece set about six months after Sirius' arrest. Implied slash between Remus and Sirius, if it bothers you, go away. Reviews are very welcome and recieved with thanks.   
  
*  
  
**Snowfall**  
_by drama-princess_  
  
*  
Outside, the snow falls.  
  
So does Remus, falling into waiting arms that are as elusive as the snowflakes. Like hope, his silly little pipe dreams fade away into nothing. Just water, water that seeps into the corners and smells of the dank basement. He keeps strange metaphors on his hand to keep from saying Sirius' name. Some childlike part of his mind chants an old rhyme you know who/and i know who/he's a bad, bad man/catch me if you can.  
  
It's strange, he thinks, as he turns up the white coverlet and slides silently into bed. Sirius permeates every aspect of his life. Even now that Sirius is gone. Remus can tell himself that his lover has gone to a traitorous hell, gone to rot in dark halls among cold demons. He can reminds himself sharply that Sirius deserves it. Sirius still seems to lurk about the corners of the house.  
  
Their house, once. How else could Remus have afforded the smooth, blonde wood that traces up the stairs, the fresh smell of lemon that still hangs about the kitchen curtains? He traces a finger along the finery, sometimes. The bank will send him a Howler soon. Payments have to be made, and Remus knows he's only started.   
  
This is his house for now, but Remus just rattles alone in it. The mirrors watch him carefully as a streak of ashy grey works itself in his brown hair. Lines shiver across his face. He never expected he would age _before his time _like this. He was always going to be young. The transformations are still hideously painful-- that never changes. Except this time there is no rat to scamper in with the key, no stag to hold a silent guard, no dog to pin him down as he snaps and snarls at the night.   
  
The snow still falls outside. That's a peaceful constant, but Remus can smell Sirius on the sheets. The scent of him lingers despite the scrubbing. It's ridiculous, he's a wolf once a month.   
  
He remembers the harsh lye that burned eyes and ears as he plunged raw hands into the vat. He tried to incinerate the smell. He couldn't.   
  
He would burn them, he thinks as he lies on his back, his hands clutching the fabric, except that he cannot afford to buy new ones.   
  
_When he spoke, what tender words he used! So softly, that like flakes of feathered snow, they melted as they fell!_ Sirius cries comically from his memory, and Remus smiles faintly.   
  
This is his solace during these long, bitter-cold nights that shake the world bare. Sirius whispers to him, kissing his shoulder tenderly, brushing his long fingers against cool skin and the fine hairs that grow on arms. Remus can fight it, just like the Imperius curse, but he always gives in. He's weak like that. James never was.   
  
Tonight, Remus resists for just a moment, and then falls powerlessly into the dream.   
  
Here Sirius is filling up the empty spaces in the house, rumpling the smooth white blankets, leaving sticky fingerprints on pale, shining wood, adding brightly coloured noise to the winter evening. Here James and Lily and Peter plunge into the house, laughing and smelling faintly of baby powder and cigarette smoke. Baby Harry smiles from his perch on the sofa-- his forehead is unmarked, and Lily raises him to place a kiss on silken hair. There is no suspicion lurking in the corners of the house.   
  
No one is ever suspiciously late. There are no secrets to be kept, no sideways glances that wonder _where were you last night? _or _were you at the meeting when we learned that? _Remus lets himself drift further into his dream until the rest go home, and Sirius's arms slip around his waist, holding him as they watch the snow fall.   
  
_  
  
You didn't say you liked the poem I read. His voice is teasing. Warm breath reaches out, gauze against skin. Sirius speaks deliberately, so that Remus can imagine the tongue and teeth and lips that form the words. The words and the kisses that come from that mouth amaze Remus. Sirius Black is his. He's picked the pale werewolf with the crescent scar.  
  
It is too simple to say that he loves Sirius. Mixed in there is a faint fear, a desperate clutching for possession. There are violent times between them when Remus grips the headboard so tightly that his knuckles strain white. Sometimes at a cold two o'clock in the morning, Remus would swear that he could hear Sirius's breath quicken in panic. What is he doing here?   
  
It is enough to be here. Tonight, at least.   
  
I was busy.  
  
A cursory answer, but Remus tucks his hands over the arms that hold him safely, saying more with the light pressure than anything. He prefers kisses to words, anyway, skin to explanations.   
  
I usually don't like poetry, you know. Now Sirius's tongue flicks out, and briefly caresses an earlobe. Remus tries to remember to breathe, but suddenly there are kisses against the back of his neck. They are soft, teasing touches of lips, just like little bits of poetry.  
  
Then-- then why that poem? He struggles to stay still. This is a game between them. Who can lose control the quickest, who can hold on silently. Sirius is always saying that he doesn't-have-to-be-afraid, that Padfoot will be here for Moony. A child's game, Remus will reply, sticking his tongue out. For a kid, Sirius replies, smacking him lightly on the arm.   
  
Shut up, Padfoot.  
  
Sirius's hands slide under his belt, letting the white shirt billow loosely about Remus's body. Remus waits for Sirius to say something, about how he's getting too thin, that he's got to keep his energy up, but he doesn't. Maybe he's realized how futile it is to coax hot tea and muffins on a lover; or, more likely, he'll wait until afterwards to press the red wine Peter brought on him. The wine sounds good, actually, but Remus can wait-- he doesn't hate food, but he loves the waiting. The slow, steady build towards hunger and then the faint edge of desperation his feeble body brings about when Sirius finally suceeds, and the hot soup comes flush into his mouth, scalding his tongue with the broth.   
  
Sirius's hands don't scald, but they warm, and they tingle, slipping their way against muscle and skin up to touch his lover.   
  
Stop it, Remus says teasingly. You're distracting me.  
  
_He wishes now that Sirius could have distracted him forever. It is a thought unworthy of what's happened, but Remus is so, so tired. Tired of swallowing tears, tired of menial jobs and the ever-dwindling pile of Sickles. He rests his head against the pillow, still trying to remember, his legs tucked close to his chest.   
  
He can't afford to keep the house much longer, anyway.   
  



End file.
